Perennial
by Bladelover
Summary: Duncan guides a new Immortal to selfdefense competence, but only time and Nature can heal his wounded heart. COMPLETE


_AN: I own nothing of the Highlander concept, nor of any of the canon characters associated with it. Davis/Panzer is who you need to credit for that. Me? I get nothing. I like it that way._

When Brent pulled into the driveway, it was dusk, but he felt as though it were bedtime. His mind ached with the exhaustion of three straight two-hour meetings and an overseas conference call to Germany. He wanted nothing more than a little dinner, a cold beer, and some sleep.

Nicole was kneeling out back, hands in the dirt and surrounded by freshly planted fall annuals, her dark brown hair swept back with a bandana. Apparently, dinner would be delayed.

"Hey," he said, mildly, trying not to take his bad mood out on her.

"Hi!" She was happy to see him. Her dirt-smudged face was radiant through the grime, and it energized him slightly. She loved gardening almost as much as they loved each other. "Bad day?"

"Brutal."

"Aw, I'm sorry." Removing her gloves, she bounced to her feet and planted a sympathetic kiss on his cheek.

"Nic," he reproved her gently, brushing at the dirt she'd added to his white dress shirt.

"Sorry."

"Nah, I'm gonna change anyway."

"Okay. I gotta run to the nursery before they close."

"What!"

"I'm out of peat, and I wanna get an early start on that new bed around the deck tomorrow. Come with me! You can relax, b about your day…"

"Fine, but I'm driving." Nic was a notoriously inattentive driver. He'd never quite trusted her with the Beemer after dark on the winding roads out here, and he was too tired for a bumpy ride in her ancient Blazer.

Amazingly, she bypassed the house entirely and got into the Beemer. He opened the driver's side door and glared at her in the passenger seat. "You couldn't change clothes first? You're wearing enough dirt to fill a grave."

"Come on," she grinned. "Miller's closes in twenty minutes."

Sighing peevishly, Brent climbed in, removing his tie and undoing the top two buttons of his shirt as he drove. Giggling, Nic reached out and mussed his sandy hair. Despite himself, he chuckled.

"I gather you've had a productive day."

"Oh, yeah! Easy digging, after that storm. I got that whole bed planted."

They made marital small talk, using the conversational shorthand common to well-matched couples. Suddenly, Brent realized that dusk was abruptly becoming darkness. He reached down to flip on the headlights.

The headlights revealed a fallen tree trunk blocking the left side of the road, and a large SUV directly in their path, pulling into the right lane to get around the tree.

Nic gasped as Brent yanked the wheel sharply to the right. The driver of the SUV made a mirror-image movement, and the vehicles collided, the Beemer careening off the heavier vehicle and coming to rest as it plowed into a tree.

Brent jerked sharply awake with a gasp, as though he hadn't breathed for quite some time. "It's all right, you're okay," said an unfamiliar voice. Brent looked around, disoriented, and was transfixed by the image of his wife, lying in an impossibly contorted position more or less next to him in the now-unrecognizable Beemer. "Nic," he breathed. Impossibly, _he_ felt fine, except for a strange headachy sensation.

"I'm sorry, she's gone," said the voice gently. Brent looked toward it and saw the sympathetic face of a stranger. "Let's get you out of the car. You'll have to climb through the window."

Brent numbly accepted help slipping through the broken window opening. Soon, the police and EMTs arrived, and Brent gave an account of the accident while watching the removal of his wife's lifeless form from the crumpled metal container. He still couldn't quite believe she was could be gone.

Clearly amazed by Brent's lack of injury, the officer asked if there was anyone they could call for him. The helpful stranger said he'd see to getting Brent home. As the activity wound down, the man guided Brent to his car, a black convertible that Brent barely registered, and soon they were on the road toward home.

"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the stranger said, oddly. "You won't believe this, but you died back there in the crash, just as your wife did."

At this point, Brent was subjected to a story that only added to the general unreality of the evening. According to this man, the two of them were specimens of a secret race of people who die countless times in the course of their lives but who can only be permanently killed by decapitation.

"I know it sounds crazy," MacLeod said, chuckling at Brent's skeptical look, "but it's true. That headache you have proves it."

"What? How did you know I have a headache?"

"Because it's not a headache. It's our way of identifying others of our kind. When you feel this sensation, you need to be prepared to fight for your life. You've nothing to fear from me, but others will be looking to take your head."

They arrived at Brent's home and MacLeod accompanied him inside. MacLeod put a hand on his shoulder.

"Get some rest. I'll sleep on the couch. We can talk in the morning."

Surprisingly, Brent did sleep. Exhaustion, mental and physical, could be useful in some situations. He arose early the next morning, roused by the scent of coffee and frying bacon. In the kitchen he found MacLeod preparing a breakfast worthy of a four-star restaurant.

He still felt numb, as though he'd awaken soon next to Nic and all would be well. MacLeod's explanation that his failure to age would eventually necessitate that he abandon his current life, and that he would have to begin training in sword combat immediately, did nothing to relieve his sense of unreality.

Only when he'd looked out the patio doors toward Nic's expertly planted flower bed did rage overcome him. Brent charged outside, grabbed a hoe, and proceeded to beat and slash the hateful plants, beginning their insignificant lives while his beloved wife lay cold in the morgue.

When he'd finished chopping the plants, he began tossing piles of earth from the bed, seeking the daffodil bulbs he knew remained beneath the surface. Nothing here deserved to live while she did not, and he sifted the dirt frantically with his bare hands until he was satisfied that every ungrateful bulb lay in a pile. Almost exhausted, he nonetheless found the strength to hack the pile to pieces. Only then did he allow MacLeod to guide him out of the ruined garden and away from what could never again be home.

To his own surprise, he was a competent student, becoming a rather proficient fighter in relatively little time. Perhaps it was because he had walled off his emotions and poured all his concentration into his training. Nothing of his old life held any interest for him anymore, and within six months he had quit his job and was making preparations to leave Seacouver.

"I don't think you're ready," MacLeod had warned him. "You should keep training with me, at least until you've survived your first challenge."

"Don't worry about me surviving. Anyone coming for my head will get more than they bargained for."

"Blind rage doesn't win challenges. Neither does unresolved grief."

"What do you know about it?"

"I have four hundred years' experience in watching loved ones die! I know quite a bit about it, thank you."

The two men faced one another in the dojo office, fighting for self-control. Finally, MacLeod said, "When are you leaving?"

"As soon as I get the house on the market. I'm stopping by today to pick up some mementos. The rest I'll have shipped or leave."

"Want company?" MacLeod knew Brent had not been to the house since the morning after the accident. Brent shook his head, eyes giving thanks for the offer, and left the dojo.

The house smelled stale and felt hollow, lacking occupants to give it life and breath. Brent felt at loose ends, not sure what he wanted to keep or leave, until his wandering took him to the kitchen. A peripheral glimpse of yellow brought him, open-mouthed, through the patio doors.

Sturdy daffodils dotted the area surrounding the bed, and some inside it. Apparently, in his fury all those months ago, he had missed a number of the bulbs and they had been cast about and taken root haphazardly, like people torn from the lives they knew and forced to take up new existence wherever they landed. The kinship he shared with these determined flowers coursed through him like a river of recognition, and he sank to his knees beside one, running his fingers in wonder along the graceful, durable cup, stroking the petals that framed it.

The significance of their survival was not lost on Brent. Tears streamed down his face as a rush of love overwhelmed him. His head touched the ground as he doubled over, sobbing, until he'd cleansed himself of bitterness. By the time he straightened, he knew what things from his old life he should keep. Wiping his face, he reached out to caress the daffodil again. "Thanks, Nic. I love you."

He returned to the house, whole again.


End file.
